A Screaming Silence

If you've met me in person,

You only know half the story.

Perhaps, you've heard my voice from my lips,

But, usually, never the voice from my hands.

You see, words have a sort of magic to them,

But when I form coherent thoughts and try to communicate them aloud,

I stutter, I mumble, the beautiful words start to crumble,

And they tumble out as some sort of curse.

But,

When I am writing,

It is a different story.

The pencil lead flows effortlessly to the page,

Though the words are new,

My hands move with muscle memory,

Familiar with forming the loops,

It is a process as natural as breathing;

And as the transfer is completed,

The greatest magic trick of all time had been performed,

For lying in front of me is poetry.

Lying in front of me are words,

My words,

In all its beauty,

In all its power,

In all its truth,

And though I read it in silence,

It screams

As a testament to the depths of my mind,

An ode to the voice in my head,

A love letter to the girl I'm hiding,

A poem to me.